“I pray you, Father, we’ve run out of oil for the Hearth lamp.”
“Go on.”
The sacrist left, closing the door behind him.
Father Ortulfus went on. “After the trial at Autun, the court supposed that you had escaped Margrave Judith’s clutches with the aid of Prince Ekkehard, whose preference for Lord Baldwin had become, shall we say, well known. When we heard that Prince Ekkehard had married the new margrave, Gerberga, those of us who remembered the trial assumed that the marriage was in some measure payment for his earlier theft of Judith’s young husband. So you must imagine that your appearance here, at this late date, raises more questions than it answers.”
“Do sit down,” said Baldwin’s companion with an unctuous smile. “Won’t you have more honey cake?”
Baldwin stubbornly remained standing.
“You need not fear that any of us are loyal to the kinfolk of Margrave Judith,” added Father Ortulfus. “We are all first and foremost servants of our most gracious and magnificent biscop and duke, Constance.”
Both Ermanrich and Sigfrid looked at Ivar.
Ivar rose slowly. “Baldwin, I pray you. Sit down.” With a pretty frown, Baldwin sat. “Is this some trick, Father Ortulfus? We have traveled far and by strange paths, and we have witnessed miracles, not least of which was that God delivered us from the Quman. We have been given by God the obligation to bring the truth to those of you who still linger in darkness, for it has come to us to know that the church has taught a falsehood these many years. For God so loved the world that She gave to us Her only Son, that He should take upon himself the measure of our sins.”
Ermanrich took up the litany. “He came before the Empress Thaissania, she of the Mask, and He would not bow down before her, for He knew that only God is worthy of worship. The empress had him flayed, as they did do to criminals in those days, and His heart was cut out and thrown into the courtyard, where it was torn into a hundred pieces by the dogs. Aren’t we, ourselves, those dogs?”
“I knew it!” thundered the prior. “Such babblings as we’ve heard from vagabonds this past year could not have sprung fully grown out of nowhere. Here’s the plague’s root!”
“A novice poisoned by heresy.” The abbot had elegant fury to spare. His disdain and disgust were a well-honed weapon. “So you were accused when you came forward at the trial of Hugh of Austra, Brother Ivar. Do you and your companions deny that the Mother and Father of Life brought forth the universe through the Word? Do you still profess this vile heresy of the Redemption?”
“It isn’t heresy! The king’s own sister, who is abbess at Quedlinhame, ordered Sigfrid’s tongue cut off as punishment because he kept speaking the truth. Yet he speaks with a purer voice than you or I, because of the miracle, when the phoenix rose out of the fire. Why would God have restored his voice if he spoke only falsehoods?”
“It was the sign of the blessed Daisan.” Sigfrid’s expression shone as he remembered that awesome moment when the phoenix’s wings had unfurled and it had risen in glory into the dawn, leaving a trail of flowers in its wake. “For the blessed Daisan also rose from death to become Life for us all.”
“You are still polluted,” said Father Ortulfus. “If you will walk with God, then walk in silence and free your heart from the Enemy’s grasp. Let there be no more of these tales, which spread like a plague upon the Earth!”
Too late Ivar recognized the servants for what they were: retired soldiers. Even the abbot had the bearing of a man who had fought in a battle or two as part of the biscop’s military host. They were many, and Ivar and his friends were few.
“But there was a phoenix,” objected Baldwin. “I hate it when people don’t believe me.”
“Where did this miracle take place?” demanded the prior.
“In the borderlands, some days east of Gent,” said Ivar.
“A conveniently long distance from here,” said the abbot.
“Have you any other witnesses?”
“The villagers saw it,” said Ermanrich.
“The villagers are not here, my friend. What of the Lions who accompany you? Or Lady Hathumod?”
“Prince Ekkehard saw it, as did all of his companions,” said Baldwin.
“Prince Ekkehard abides far to the east as well, and is now married to Margrave Gerberga—”
“He does not!” retorted Baldwin, who was never more indignant than when he was utterly sure of his ground. “He’s abbot of St. Perpetua’s in Gent. He can’t be married. And he was just at the battle with us. I saw him cut down!”
